A whisper rose: they walked once as we do.
Had I no time for whispers, I never would have heard
an utterance of value here in these dry lands.
We stand together, allied somehow against the brow
weathered by titanic blades and furrowed by lust.
The triplets threading tapestries, severed so slyly
when questions are raised, are just our approximations.
Had I not thrust that blade into that hide,
I never would have thought there was anything
to approximate. The whisper rose: once the gods
stood here, carved their characters on these stones,
ox and lion springing from their steps, intoxicated
by the dust on their skin. So I mounted the monster
and flew, the hawks and crows abuzz with words
only gods know, now, their hymns approximated below.

* * *

Cuitlamiztli Carter resides with his wife near the capital city of Texas.

What inspires you to write and keep writing? I’d like to leave enough material to delight or embarrass my great-grandchildren.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre? For homo sapiens, the world is not enough.